


Leaving the Place No Longer Called Home.

by wanderingidealism



Series: Bombur's Children [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dain is NOT an asshole, Dain is lawful evil kinda, Familial Relationships, Family Dynamic, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Multi, Not Happy, Racism, Unhappy ending/ canonical ending, and a mugging, and are also very good at hiding their prejudice, and near death and murder, and terrible people sometimes have a habit of holding a lot of power, and the children are CLEARLY, and the dwarf nobles really don't like Bombur's elf son, because he has to appease dwarf nobles, but even he can't have eyes everywhere, but the parents aren't happy if the children aren't happy, by choice, dead durins, forced to leave, happy ending though!!!, nor do the guilds, not sorry, or most of the general populace, racism against elvesby dwarves, silent suffering to keep the parents happy, sorry - Freeform, the family held together not by blood but by bonds, to keep the peace within the city, trigger warnings for severe beatings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 18:19:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3539336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingidealism/pseuds/wanderingidealism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tragedy strikes the family in the form of a group of racist dwarves and an unlucky encounter in an alleyway. What course of action will the Ur clan choose to take in wake of this occurance?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaving the Place No Longer Called Home.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elenorasweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenorasweet/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Bombur's Children](https://archiveofourown.org/works/962240) by [elenorasweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenorasweet/pseuds/elenorasweet). 
  * Inspired by [Bombur's Children](https://archiveofourown.org/works/962240) by [elenorasweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenorasweet/pseuds/elenorasweet). 



> WARNING: 
> 
> Graphic violence  
> threats to small children  
> threats to the family  
> threats  
> racism  
> mugging  
> attempted murder  
> no justice  
> appeasing the nobles.
> 
> Look I love Dain, but I fucked up his personality. Sorry. I tried fixing it.

Family Woes.

_This takes place a few years after BOFA, where Binur and Borobur are old enough to enlist with the guards and Dain is King under the Mountain. So no happiness and rainbows au._

_Warning: attempted murder and potentially triggering situations in a dark alley._

_Also bullying and violence.  Feel free to PM me with ideas and comments!_

_Find me on tumblr at :_

_ginathethundergoddess_

 

 

            Makrun was six, and six years or so had passed since the Battle of Five Armies. She saw her father and uncle and cousin and family all happy and safe in their new home. She loved them all very much and was very happy that they were happy.

 

But, not everyone was happy here; her older brother Binur looked almost pained. He tried to hide it under a beaming grin- a smile that he had adopted from Uncle Bofur, who Binur really admired for his op-tea-miss-em or whatever it was- But the smile was only a mask and it was a very bad mask at that. Binur’s face when he thought no one was looking (and Makrun was usually looking, but no one ever noticed her because she was so small and quiet) was really sad and lonely.

 

She knew that he was immortal; Amad and Adad already had this talk with her and Binur, because they wanted them to know that no matter how different they were from dwarves, they would always love them. But this wasn’t Binur’s “I’m lonely because I’ll be alive forever and ever” sad face. This was the face he wore when someone had called him a “nancy tree-shagger” or a “disgusting elf”. This was his “I love my family very much, but I don’t belong here” sad face. He told her the differences because he said she’d understand why he got so sad sometimes one day. (She was a human, and for all that she and Binur were raised up dwarves, many dwarrow did not like that they lived in the city of Erebor- a home they believed was only for dwarves. She didn’t understand why, nor would she until she started noticing the glares sent her and Binur’s way on the market streets. Many dwarrow- but not adad’s friends- disliked humans as much as they disliked elves. For now, her family simply let her be six and ignorant; they wanted her to feel like she belonged for at least a little longer.) She hoped she could find a way to make her brother feel happy again; she liked it when he really smiled, not when he wore masks.

* * *

 

***

 

Borobur and Binur couldn’t wait to join the guardsmen, having finally reached the majority age. Mr. Dwalin approved of their skills with a blade, grudgingly admitting that Binur’s excellent eyesight and flexibility would make him a valuable soldier one day (He pretended to dislike the elf, but Binur knew otherwise and rolled with it. Mr. Dwalin didn’t like showing emotion in public.)

 

 

If only the other dwarrow could see that, as the two were laughed- yet again- out of the enlistment offices of the palace, scraps of parchment with a politely written rejection printed out on them clutched in their hands.

 

“It’s because I’m an elf,” Binur said bitterly, his shoulders slouched, his eyes distant, “It never changes, does it Borobur?”

“It’s not your fault,” Borobur said firmly, nudging his tall brother in the side, “Those bigoted bastards just don’t understand how great you are.”

“They won’t accept me and you know it,” Binur said sadly, gripping the parchment in his hand tightly, his nails biting through the paper, “No dwarrow wants to employ an elf. The Blacksmith’s guild all but laughed me out of the headquarters, and the carpenters’ guild master threw a knife at us. There’s no place for me in Erebor.”

 

Borobur didn’t know how to respond; he loved his brother fiercely, for all that the git was annoying and mischievous, but Binur was right. Very few dwarrow had accepted him before, and very few dwarrow wanted him now. Lord Thorin was willing to give the elf a chance, but Thorin II Oakenshield was killed in battle, along with his heirs. Any hope of acceptance in the city of Erebor was gone with the line of Durin.

 

“We’ll find a place,” Borobur insisted finally, “we love you Binur, don’t forget that.”

 

            Binur nodded, but was unconvinced. They walked in silence, side by side for a while, the elf towering over his beloved brother.

            “If I… If I left the city, would you come with me?” the golden-haired elf asked suddenly, turning his blue eyes on his brother.

            “Left the city?” Borobur asked, shocked. He had never considered it before; their father, uncle, and cousin had all sacrificed much and lost many things to regain their mountain home, and it just seemed ungrateful to leave now. “Why? Where would you go?”

            “I don’t know,” Binur sighed sadly, “Anywhere. We could go on an adventure or something. It could be fun!” the elf was beaming again at the prospect; Arda was a big country, and there were plenty of opportunities all around.

            “Maybe,” Borobur thought. He would like to do some exploring before settling down. He was worried though; perhaps his brother’s sudden desire to wander meant that his longing to sail west had finally emerged. Binur was clearly not happy in Erebor, restless, frustrated, and agitated, much like a caged animal. He wore a smiling mask to ease their parents’ worries, and pretended to be happy in the hard-won home if only to make them happy. Their sister Vidunn was of the same opinion, having noticed it after little Makrun pointed it out one evening when Binur had gone on a walk.

 

            Maybe adventuring would help ease his brother’s doubts and prove that he did belong in their family. It would certainly help to get him away from the mockery, the prejudice, and the outright intolerance the elf was faced with daily. The insults that made Borobur’s rage boil up, the slurs that cracked the cheery grins his brother wore would be virtually non-existent outside the city walls (and their retaliation to the insults would likely be unpunished, unlike many of their brawls with dwarves who dared insult the two.)

            “We should think about it more,” Borobur said after a while. He loved Erebor, but he would abandon it in an instant if it would make his brother happy.

 

            Binur grinned, the smiling lighting his whole face brighter than a diamond, “Excellent…. I’m glad you’d join me,” he said, wrapping an arm awkwardly over his shorter brother’s shoulder.

            They walked in silence for a while before the bells rang through the mountain signaling the end of the work day.

 

            “Oh Mahal! I had a date!” Borobur exclaimed, suddenly running towards Erebor’s library. He was attempting to woo a scribe who worked under Ori and had a sharp wit about her. He had promised to meet her to escort her home for the evening.

            “Good luck with that!” Binur snorted after his brother, as the young dwarrow fled into the crowd. The elf turned to walk home, before deciding to take a walk instead. There were many places he had yet to explore in the mountain, and perhaps doing so alone would clear his mind a bit.

 

* * *

 

***

 

            “Vidunn, have you seen either of your older brothers?” Arunn asked, as Bolgur hurried into the room behind her. Vidunn sat with Makrun, braiding the little girl’s hair and showing her how to do the family braid.

            “Borobur said they were going to try to enlist in the guard,” Vidunn said, finishing off a braid in the little girl’s hair.

            “Borobur has a date,” Makrun said, swinging her legs, “Ori says he’s sweet on a girl in the library. At least that’s what Uncle Bofur says he heard. ‘Been walkin’ her home every night.”

            “It would be nice if my sons saw fit to tell me these things in person rather than having me find out from their sisters,” Arunn sighed, “well I guess I overcooked again tonight. And Boftur insisted I make Binur’s favorite dish for dinner. Ah well.”

 

            The children followed their mother into the dining room, where Bifur and Bofur sat conversing silently in Iglishmek, knowing that Vidunn and Makrun weren’t fluent quite yet, and that Boftur was even worse. Makrun gravitated to Bifur’s side and crawled into his lap, planting a kiss on his cheek before showing him how Vidunn taught her the family braids.

            Arunn grinned at her family, setting the table and waiting for her Husband and boys to return home.

 

* * *

 

***

 

 

            Binur sighed happily, gazing at the sky and the stars from the balcony garden he had located in the lower levels of Erebor through the bad end of town where Nori and Uncle Bofur went to drink. He missed the open air of Ered Luin, and the comfortable acceptance he had experienced there.

 

            He was proud of his father, don’t get him wrong, and he was happy that the family had gotten back their home (though less than happy once he found out the entire story, but Bombur was one of the three who remained free of the gold sickness, and Bifur and Bofur were quick to shake it as well) and wanted his family to see that he was happy.

 

            But he didn’t belong here. He was unwanted, if his attempts to join a guild proved anything. He was too tall for the mines, and being so far under the mountain terrified him beyond belief. He knew his family cared deeply about him and were worried about him, for as hard as he tried to hide his melancholy, Uncle Bofur could always see through his masks. (Bofur had taught him that smile, it was obvious he’d know when it was fake. He had seen many such fake grins on his uncle’s face anyway, whenever Makrun begged for stories about the quest, and whenever the Hobbit’s name was mentioned.) He couldn’t help being frustrated; no matter how hard he tried to fit in, or how many dwarrow accepted his existence (the entire Company of Thorin II Oakenshield loved him, even the ever grumpy Mr. Dwalin) it always seemed that there were more and more who wished him gone. He didn’t want to get his father or uncle or cousin in trouble, or put them in danger like they were in Ered Luin, so he dealt with the insults, ignoring them. He took every rejection from every guild with squared shoulders and his head held high. He kept up an impossibly optimistic attitude, even when he was at his lowest. He was sure he’d find somewhere in Erebor that would accept him. But doubts still nagged his mind, and some days, like today for instance, he just couldn’t handle it.

 

 

            _His family wouldn’t always be there for him, would they? He would out live every last one of them and eventually be forced to sail West or linger in Arda and fade. Only the stars would ever remember his existence._

            He shook the nasty thoughts from his head sighed sadly. He’d stay with his family and their descendants and their descendants’ descendants until he was ready to sail west. He had made that decision long ago, and would uphold it.

 

            Sighing again, Binur stood up and walked back inside the mountain, slipping back into the city on silent, elfish feet. He walked in the shadows of the buildings in this part of town, knowing that to be in the torchlight would make him a target, and there were several nasty gangs down here that had previously made their dislike of elves well known to Bifur and Bofur. Binur was starting to think that perhaps he shouldn’t have come this direction at all.

            Lost in thought (and lost in direction though he was loath to admit it) Binur didn’t hear the scuffling noises behind him until it was too late. He turned around at the last moment, and was promptly hit in the face with a plank of wood, darkness swiftly taking over his vision.

* * *

 

***

 

 

            Arunn paced around the kitchen, nervously looking towards the door every few minutes. Borobur had returned home hours before, and the younger Ur children had been put to sleep, yet still their elf had yet to return home. Bombur at this point had alerted the guards on duty, yet there had been no word.

            Now, Borobur, Bombur, Bifur, and Bofur were all searching for Binur, near frantic with worry. Arunn sent a silent prayer to Mahal, begging him to keep her son safe, though he may not be a dwarf. She sent another prayer to Iluvatar, when the midnight bells began chiming and there was still no sign of her beloved lad.

            Her family returned to the house with grim faces, shaking their heads.

            “He may have left the city amad,” Borobur said sadly, “he’s been restless of late… though he said he wanted to take me with him,” The young dwarf added, biting his lip nervously.

            Arunn nodded, wiping tears from her eyes, before retiring to her bedroom for a sleepless night of fear.

 

* * *

 

***

 

            Binur gasped in pain as another boot made contact with his ribs, and fought against the urge to curl in on himself in pain. He had been ambushed by a group of half-drunken dwarves; taken by surprise and knocked unconscious, his hands bound. They had spent the better part of the last forty-five minutes beating him, showering him with insults and making him bleed.

 

            Binur had resisted for the most part, determined not to give into them and let them see him weakened and afraid, but his endurance was wearing thin as spots danced in his vision. He had knocked a few unconscious when he first woke up, though he knew full well that killing them would have given him more of a chance of escape (but it would only be blamed on him, and cause more strife for his family and they did not need that, not when Bifur was well known for vocalizing his disappointment with Lord Dain, which caused them to fall out of favor with the royals, despite the Ur clan’s contribution to the recovery and restoration of Erebor).  His efforts had only doubled the dwarves’ own, and in a sick parody of the night Bombur first found him, Binur was once again at the Mercy of a group of angry dwarves with weapons and no way of defending himself.

 

Binur thought at least two of his ribs were fractured, if not broken, and his left shoulder was dislocated. His head was swimming and his vision was spotty, and he knew he had several spots that would require stitches.  He wasn’t sure how much more he could take.

            There was sudden lull in his beating and Binur thought that maybe it would be over and he could limp back home to lick his wounds; he had thought wrong.

 

            Someone pinned him to the wall, ripping open the front of his shirt while two others held him secure. Binur’s eyes widened as he caught sight of a silver knife gleaming in the dim light of the dwarves lanterns.

 

            “Feeling afraid, aren’t ye, weed-eater?” the dwarf holding the knife (a grotesque dwarf with a large, crooked scar running lengthwise to his chin) laughed, a sound full of malicious mirth and loathing, “Not very stealthy or observant for a pansy elf, is he boys?”

            The other dwarves laughed at the dwarf in charge, one of them twisting his hand in Binur’s golden hair painfully, forcing the elf to look up at the scarred dwarf, who was advancing towards him.

            “Not as scared as you’ll be when Cousin Bifur hears about this,” Binur hissed, his blue eyes narrowed in fury. The dwarf to his immediate left slammed a fist into his face, and Binur’s head lolled to the side painfully.

            “I’d not get too cheeky boy, it might end worse for you than it already will. Your kind don’t belong here, even if you’ve been “claimed” by the heroes of the mountain,” The scarred dwarf said, looming over the boy, “‘sides, your presence isn’t tolerated here. King Dain only lets you stay because the Ur clan helped reclaim the mountain. No one would miss you if you disappeared.”

 

            Binur glared, baring his bloodied teeth at the dwarf, “You know nothing of my family!”

            The dwarves just laughed, at him, “You think they care? You’re the one holding them back from getting the recognition they deserve; Thorin may have tolerated your presence, you bastard elf, but we don’t. No one wants you here, and no one will miss you.” The leader added, the tip of the blade running a deep scar lengthwise down Binur’s face. He hissed in pain and spat on the dwarf, hitting him in the face.

 

            The dwarf snarled furiously and slammed Binur’s head into the wall, grabbing his braids- the ones that marked him as Bombur’s son, and as a dwarf-kin, the very braids that were Binur’s mark of belonging, his pride and joy- and in one deft movement of the knife sheared the golden strands off, the braids and their beads clattering to the floor as Binur watched in horror.

 

            It was agonizing and shameful; he couldn’t defend himself, his family (who suffered because of him, because they dared take pity on a wandering, lost member of a race that was fleeing across the sea. He didn’t deserve their love did he, when all he gave them in return was the scorn of other dwarves and less opportunity to better themselves. He made them pariahs for their kindness) were held back by him, Binur was loathe to admit, and he could not even defend his pride like a proper dwarf. He let these cowards hold him down and shear his braids; how weak could he possibly be?

 

            _Maybe these men are right,_ Binur thought as his braids landed on the grimy stones before him, _Maybe they’d be better off without their elf son. Why would they take me in when all I seem to bring to the family was hate and scourn?_

 

            These agonizing thoughts were enough to distract him for a few moments, enough that his struggles ceased and the dwarves decided to end their game.

            The cold blade of the knife slit his skin slowly and painfully, and with such suddenness that Binur began screaming. They paused only to gag him, before continuing, carving runes into the flesh of his chest in such a way that they would scar permanently. Binur thrashed against the dwarves holding him down but to no avail; they had already marked him, cut off his braids, shamed him and defeated him. They may as well let him die.

 

            Which is clearly what they intended to do, as Binur found out shortly after they finished carving insults and slurs in khuzad-duhl into his flesh. He felt the knife slide between two of his ribs, and felt it again stab into his side. The leader of the gang laughed as he noticed tears make tracks through the grime on Binur’s face, and with a final kick shoved the elf to the ground, before he turned with his men and left.

 

            “Maybe we’ll go after the little human girl next,” he heard their leader cackle as they turned into the road, and Binur froze in fear. He struggled to stand, to go after them, his drive to protect his little sister overwhelming, but the pain racking his body even more. He slumped to the ground and cursed his weakness, praying his uncles and brother would be better able to defend Makrun, as he wouldn’t be able to. Not this time.

 

            Binur lay face up, feeling warmth leave his body swiftly as he bled out in the streets of some back alley in the slums of Erebor. Darkness began creeping into his vision, and he wondered, vaguely, if perhaps things would begin to look up for his family once he died. Perhaps Borobur would be able to enter a guild, or even join the guards now that his useless, poncy elf brother would no longer be able to tag along beside him. Perhaps Adad would get the promotion he had been denied, because he had defended his elf son’s right to live in Erebor in front the dwarven court, against the king’s suggestion; perhaps Amad would be able to trade with more merchants, and finally have more women to talk to besides their few neighbors and the human women who traded with Erebor daily. Boftur would be mocked less, and Vidunn may be less angry at the world now that the older brother she so staunchly defended was beyond help. She wouldn’t have to alienate herself from young dwarrowdams who belittled the tall, ugly, misfit elf, whose own birth parents saw fit to abandon him and go west.

            These thoughts plagued him until darkness finally took him, and he passed out in the dark alley, nearly dead to the world.

            He was like that a few moments later when Nori stumbled into the alleyway after nicking a lovely knife off a drunken dwarrow and was seeking a hiding spot to examine his goods.

 

* * *

 

***

 

            It was nearly three in the morning when someone began pounding and shouting at the door frantically. Bombur answered it, irritated and worried, prepared to scold his child for returning home so late, only to find Gloìn standing on the other side, looking grave.

 

            “Nori found your son,” Gloìn said, and instantly Bombur’s face lost color. He ran to his room and shook his wife awake quickly, and together they left, alerting Bofur before slamming and locking the door.

 

 

            Binur lay pale and silent, nearly devoid of the glowing light of a living elf, as he lay motionless on a cot in Oìn’s house. (it was the closest place Nori could drag the elf to, he was too weak to move to the halls of healing, and there was no guarantee that the healers would have taken him anyway.)

 

            Arunn nearly collapsed at the sight of her smiling boy, covered in bandages and paler than any child should ever be, (no parent should have to see their child on death’s door, with little hope of coming back) with his hair unevenly cut, the familiar braids she had woven into his silken locks since his childhood missing.

            _They cut the braids of my boy,_ she thought, sinking into a chair by her son’s side, and grabbing his limp ( _cold, too cold_ ) hand. She felt a pulse under her fingers, though it was weak.

 

            “What happened?” Bombur growled, his eyes glassy with unshed tears, “who did this to my boy?’

            “We don’t know,” Gloìn said sadly.

            “I found him in an alley in the Underside of town,” Nori said from where he leaned against the window, “It wasn’t a good part of town… he may have been lost and gotten mugged.”

            “It was an attack on his race,” Oìn said, shaking his head, and gently removing the gauze from Binur’s chest to reveal the jaggedly cut scars- runes- carved there, “There’s no way this was a random mugging.”

            “They cut off his braids too,” Gloìn said, “left the beads behind… Nori and I… we collected them for you, if you want. Seems like he gave as good as he got too.”

            “Aye there were a few bodies beside him when I found them, but they must have come to when I dragged him off to get help,” Nori confirmed, “I didn’t have time to bind them, the lad was bleeding out.”

            “So the culprits weren’t caught?” Bombur growled, his fists shaking as he clenched them ever tighter; his son lay dying, the murderers out on the loose. His son laid dying, slurs and curses carved into his flesh, punished for something that he could not control- his elven heritage- and Bombur’s family had little chance of recompense. King Dain, for all that he was fair and just, would have his hands tied in this case; Bifur’s anger and resentment at the Dwarven court had earned them a negative reputation, not that Bombur disagreed with his cousin’s opinions, but that negative reputation did not bode well for success in the judicial courts of Erebor, which were just as corrupt and unjust as they were in Ered Luin. Dain had done his best to reform them, but he was busy trying to rebuild external relationships and the very kingdom itself; not everything under his rule caught his eye immedietly.  Bombur knew they’d never get retribution for this attack, just as they never got retribution for the attacks in Ered Luin; there would likely not even be an investigation, as there would be for an attack on a dwarf, nor a wergild, and the thought of such injustice made him burn with fury.

 

            “Not necessarily,” Nori said, pulling something from his pocket, “nicked this off a dwarf near that alleyway not five minutes before I found Binur.” The object was a steel knife, adorned with runes and decorations, likely from the holder’s family. They could identify Binur’s attackers at the least.

            “Even if we have evidence of the attack, we still won’t get justice,” Arunn said angrily, wiping tears from her eyes, “Under Thorin maybe, but under Dain? Never. He’s our son but he’s not a dwarf and that’s all the council will see. Even with Dain’s relaxed policy on elves they’re still a bunch of bigots.” Her free fist clenched in her lap. She offered no apology to Gloìn who simply shrugged at her outburst; he and his family had prospered under Dain and were loyal enough to him, though their hearts evidently lay with the Company, for all that it was broken and discontented.

            “Who says we need judicial support to get justice?” Nori suggested slyly. For all that he fooled around with the elf to get on his nerves, he actually enjoyed the kid. It wasn’t often he found someone sneakier than he was, not since their beloved Burglar had he found someone so competent. Besides, Bofur was his friend and he would murder if it was all he could do to help his friend.

            “Thank you Nori, but I fear that the crime would only be pinned on my son,” Bombur sighed, tugging his beard nervously. At this point Binur stirred, beginning to wake up.

            “Amad?” He whispered, his eyes half opened and his voice rough with pain.

            “Shhh,” Arunn soothed, running gentle hands through Binur’s hair, “You’re safe now.”

            Binur relaxed slightly at her touch before his eyes widened in alarm, “Makrun,” he whispered urgently, attempting to sit up. Arunn kept him pinned to the bed however, and turned an urgent eye to Bombur.

            “You’re both safe,” she repeated, soothingly, though Binur remained alarmed, attempting to rise from the bed.

            “Not in Erebor they’re not,” Nori muttered, with an angry sigh, “I’ll get Dwalin to keep an eye out for whoever did this, and I’ll have him double the guard in your area… it’s the least I can do.”

            “Thank you Nori,” Bombur nodded, as he watched Oìn and Arunn coax his son to drink a bitter sleeping draught, which promptly knocked him out and killed the pain probably wracking his body. Bombur clenched his fists angrily at the injustice; he’d had enough of the intolerance geared toward both his elf son and his human daughter.  He was sick of the disrespect his family was faced with daily in a mountain that he had nearly died getting back.

 

 

            He had thought Erebor would be a new start; that his family would find happiness and peace within the walls of the city. He had counted on it himself, spending the worst parts of the quest dreaming of the new life that waited in Erebor. However he found that all that he had worked for had been a lie, and that the home he had dreamed of had died alongside the line of Durin; perhaps it had never existed at all. He could see that his family had trouble adjusting; Binur was moody and silent, for all that he pretended to be cheerful, and now he lay pale and still as death; Makrun was growing almost too fast for the dwarf children to keep up, and this made her the object of the same taunts and bullying Binur went through- and now apparently the same threats his elf son had received through his childhood as well; Borobur could not find a job anywhere in town, due to his association and fierce defense of his brother and sister, and Boftur spent more time working around the house than playing with the children his age. Bolgur seemed content to join him in that respect, though the child was very young yet and hadn’t much chance to explore, and Vidunn was bitter and resentful of other dwarrowdam, who glared at her family as they passed; she seemed rebellious and angry at the world for their prejudice, for all that she pretended to be cheerful in her father’s presence.

            Now that he thought on it, perhaps his children feigned happiness for his sake and for Arunn’s; even Bofur and Bifur seemed more sullen in Erebor than they were in Ered Luin, when they were poor, barely tolerated, but happy. (Arunn was of the opinion that Bofur was more resentful of the treatment of their hobbit than anything else, he had had terrible bosses before.) Bombur continued to think on what he should do, for clearly they could not stay here, in a place that made his family so unhappy.

            “You can stay here for the night,” Oìn said, as he finished off his notes on Binur’s wounds, “and if need be, I will act as witness in court.”

            “Thank you Oìn,” Arunn said, “It would be appreciated.”

            “Arunn,” Bombur said suddenly, moving from his spot against the wall, “I’m headed home to inform Bifur and Bofur about what happened.” Arunn merely nodded, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. Bombur tapped her forehead with his own gently, before thanking Oìn and Gloìn and Nori and leaving. He gave a last glance at his son, feeling the disappointment at himself and his failure to protect his family rear its head and make his heart heavy. He left the room and made for home.

 

* * *

 

***

            Bifur was understandably enraged when Bombur delivered the news. His rage echoed through the halls and shook the very glass of their modest house. Bofur demanded the names of the culprits, and for the first time since the Battle of Five Armies looked infuriated. It was a foreign expression on his normally cheerful face. Borobur was pale-faced and his knuckles bone-white with how hard he was gripping the table.

 

            “I should never have left him,” he said gravely, “I shouldn’t have gone off alone. He was in one of his sulks and I knew he wouldn’t go straight home. Mahal damn me this is my fault!” the boy was shaking. Bombur shook his head and gripped his eldest son’s shoulders.

            “It was no one’s fault but the dwarrow who attacked him,” he said sternly, “do not blame yourself for the prejudices of others.”

 

            “Will he be all right?” Vidunn asked quietly from the door, Bifur’s furious bellows having woken her and her siblings. Bolgur hid behind her skirts, eyes wide, and Boftur gripped Makrun by her shoulders, which were hitching with barely contained sobs. Vidunn had tear tracks running down her cheeks.

            “Will Binur be all right?” she asked again, her liquid brown eyes watery, but determined. Bombur sighed and went to his children, gathering them close.

            “He’s hurt,” he said simply, “Very badly. Oìn says he’ll pull through but it may be a while before he’s all right again. I need to ask you all a question,” he paused here, waiting for his children to meet his eyes, “Are you all happy here?” he needed to know before making his decision. He knew somewhere where his family would be at peace, but he would not uproot them unnecessarily, though he longed to make sure Binur was safe.

 

            His younger children were silent, Makrun shifting awkwardly, almost nervously. It was Borobur who spoke up first.

 

            “I have found a few people here that I like,” he stated slowly, “but not enough to call this mountain home, especially since they treat my family so poorly.”

            It was his careful statement that had his other children speaking up left and right, stating their concerns and their anger.

 

            “I hate the people here, except the Company,” Vidunn shrugged, “They’re petty and cruel, and they hurt my family. Binur’s been thinking of leaving for a while and if I had reached my majority by the time he decided, I was going to go with him.”

            “Adad, there’s no one here who really likes humans,” Makrun said sadly, “For all that King Bard the Dragonslayer is kind and a hero to both Dale and Erebor, the other children don’t wish to play with me. Their parents won’t let them or they think me odd and tell me I’m too tall for their games or make me play the bad guy. I am happy to stay here if it makes everyone else happy, but I don’t think it does.”

            “Makrunn’s right,” Boftur said sadly, “And the things they whisper behind our backs that they think we can’t hear are often worse when Binur’s around. He tries not to show it, but he slouches lower and hides his eyes sometimes in the streets, and his smile fades slightly. I don’t like it and I don’t like not feeling safe.”

            “We didn’t really want to say anything because you and Uncle Bofur and Cousin Bifur fought so hard to get the mountain back,” Vidunn added softly, “We’re not… we’re not ungrateful. But we just cannot call a place that does not accept us home.”

 

            “Shire,” Bolgur babbled, “We go to Shire.”

            “Bolgur likes Uncle Bofur’s stories about Mr. Bilbo,” Makrun shrugged, the nine-year-old dwarf nodding excitedly, “we thought, well, I thought… “she trailed off uncertainly, shuffling her feet.

            “We thought maybe we could go there,” Boftur said, “if Mr. Bilbo would have us. That way we could all be happy.” He directed his glance at Bofur before returning his gaze to the floor.

 

            Bifur and Bofur were silent, looking to Bombur to handle the situation. He stared directly back at them.

            “We didn’t part with Bilbo on the greatest of terms,” Bofur sighed, “he probably wishes to never see us again.”

            “That’s not true,” Borobur interjected, standing up.

            “Mr. Balin still writes to Mr. Bilbo a lot,” Makrun said, “he showed me a letter at my last lesson. Ori does too, though neither of them can really admit it,” She said.

            “We weren’t supposed to tell anyone,” Boftur said softly, “It could get Mr. Balin and Ori in trouble, but we were asking about the Shire, and Ori went to grab a map and knocked a stack of paper over, and Makrun’s westron is very strong and she read out the name before Ori noticed she had the paper,” he added softly, glaring at his sister, who shrugged.

 

            “Wait, Balin still speaks to Bilbo?” Bofur asked, his face suddenly frowning, “he could have at least told us.”

            “That’s beside the point,” Bombur stated, standing up and turning to Bifur, “I know neither of you are happy here,’ he said, gesturing to Bofur, “and after the events of last night, I’m no longer inclined to call Erebor my home. My children do not feel safe here, and one of them is laid up in Oìn’s house, after being attacked for his heritage. It’s your decision as clan head, Bifur, should we leave the mountain we fought for but not one of us calls home?”

 

            Bifur contemplated the journey; it’d be dangerous, but they could take another route, around Mirkwood and not over the Misty Mountains.  Though it’d hurt, and feel like admitting defeat finally after fighting so long, it would be good to find another place that would accept them. Though perhaps Bree as opposed to the Shire would be better to settle in, or perhaps the Tookland or a settlement near the Brandywine River. Bilbo’s home in Hobbiton was less accepting of non-hobbits than Erebor of non-dwarves.

 

            “We shall move. But only after Binur’s fully healed,” Bifur signed, and the children’s faces lit up as they scrambled to make lists of what to pack.

            “I’ll go make the proper arrangements with Balin and see if we need to speak to Dain at all about it,” Bofur said, sounding more cheerful than he had in years as he exited the house.

            “Arunn’s going to kill you for this, cousin,” Bifur said gruffly, “Making her travel back over the mountains is going to piss her off.”

            “Aye, but Binur will be happier, I think. Until he and Borobur go off to seek their fortunes,” Bombur smiled.  Bifur clapped him on the back and hurried after the children, while Borobur waited by the door.

            “I’m going to see Binur, adad,” he said, “He’ll need… He’ll be in of his sulks, and will need someone to drag him out of it.”

            “Let me accompany you then,” Bombur said, and they marched back to Oìn’s home together.

 

* * *

 

***

 

 

          Binur, when he was lucid and well enough to leave Oìn’s care was adamant on avoiding his family.

            They were adamant on not letting him avoid them. Borobur would follow him around, snapping back sarcastic retorts at Binur’s biting commentary, while Makrun would seek him out to play games with her and Vidunn. It was not a matter of him feeling alone, however; no, Binur’s aloof behavior stemmed from his belief that they’d be much better off without him, solidified by his recent experiences in a dark alleyway.

 

            Arunn would not accept this belief in her house and upon learning her son held it, she whacked him upside the head and scolded him for his stupidity before holding him close.

            “You are my son, and I will not have you believe otherwise,” Arunn growled, as Binur rubbed the spot on his head where her hand hit.

            “But-“ Binur protested, but Bombur shook his head.

            “I swore I wouldn’t abandon you when I found you all those years ago, didn’t I lad?” Bombur asked, staring his son in the eye, “I’ll not abandon you now. Not even if ye were an orc.”

            “You shouldn’t have to leave the mountain because of me,” Binur insisted, “It’s your home… If I have to I’ll go live with that poncy elf in Mirkwood! I will be fine!”

            “Where you go, we go,” Bombur stated simply, “If the mountain doesn’t like the way I raise my family, then the mountain can collectively fuck itself, Mahal damn them.”

            “Yer stuck with us laddie,” Bofur said affectionately, “for as long as you’ll have us and then some, Mahal be willing.”

            Binur smiled then, a beaming, bright grin, the first real smile Bombur had seen him give in years.

            “Thank you,” Binur muttered, before heading upstairs to retire for the night.

 

* * *

 

***

 

            It took a while to get their affairs settled, nearly another year, and by that time the jagged cuts on Binur’s chest had faded to mere scars, permanent, but simply that. Scars. Binur could live with scars. They had received a welcoming letter from Bilbo, who said he’d be delighted to have them again, much to Bofur’s hardly restrained joy, and as soon as they gathered the proper provisions and said a final farewell to the graves of the Durins, the family set out. They bid farewell to the remaining Company members and Lady Dis, begging them to write.

 

            None of them looked back at the mountain as soon as they left the gates for the final time.

 

            The family left the Lonely Mountain as one and headed toward the Shire, pausing only in Dale to wish King Bard farewell and good luck with his reign (he had been quite helpful in Makrun’s upbringing and he had their eternal gratitude for the hand-me-down dresses from his daughters) before heading on their way.

They travelled around Mirkwood (“Once was enough, thank you very much. Sorry Binur”) and decided to cross the mountains a little further south than they had previously. They made good time, and had only one encounter with Wargs that was handled very efficiently by Bifur and Borobur. (Binur complained bitterly that they went south purposely, just so they didn’t have to visit Rivendell and the elves, but they could tell it was a half-hearted complaint.) It was late June when they caught their first sight of the emerald Shire, and its endless fields.

 

It already felt like home.

(end)


End file.
